Chance Meeting (13 page)
“Can’t you call someone at Stannard Limited?”
“They’d never tell me. Wouldn’t dare. And it might tip them off that I’m interested in the property. Believe me, they’d move fast to stop me. No, we have to use the element of surprise.”
“How are you going to get the information, then, break into Daddy’s office?”
Ty smiled. “Nothing quite so drastic. Remember Sam Brody? He runs a firm now that specializes in corporate security systems. It should take him about five minutes to run through the computer files at Stannard Limited. That’ll give me the information I need.”
“Isn’t that illegal?” Lizzie asked worriedly. She hadn’t seen Sam Brody in years. But now that she was an adult, a mother, too, chills of horrified embarrassment raced down her spine when she recalled the shenanigans she’d pulled while Sam Brody worked as Ty’s bodyguard.
Ty shrugged. “More like bending the law. Since Sam’s firm has ties with the government, he has carte blanche to investigate just about any company he chooses.” An enigmatic smile curved her lips.
“Something tells me he won’t mind gumming up the works for Father, especially if it’s to help me out.”
H
e still had time for another drink. In the month since the night of the storm, Steve had poured more alcohol into his system than in all his previous years of casual drinking. It wasn’t the quickest way to commit suicide, but efficiency wasn’t the goal. He wanted, no, he
needed
to make sure he suffered before he finally died, just as Fancy Free had suffered before Steve put a bullet in him. So he’d drink and torture himself with memories of that night until his body and mind could endure no more. It took only the minute shift of his head and the slight raising of his index finger to have the bartender, who’d been standing off to the side drying tumblers with a soft white dishtowel, to set aside cloth and glass and reach for the bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Wordlessly, he poured a double shot into Steve’s empty glass.
Fucking unbelievable,
thought Steve with equal parts admiration and disgust. He’d never understood this about bars before, that a person’s alcoholic need could be catered to without a single word passing through one’s lips. God bless bartenders everywhere. He slapped a crumpled ten-dollar bill on the dark, scarred surface of the bar, idly wondering whether he’d have enough money for the tolls back out to Long Island. Hell, maybe he’d be able to bum a twenty off Tyler Stannard once he signed away his property to the man. His throat clenched spasmodically as the image of his home, his barn, his horses flashed in his mind.
Oh, God, how had his life come to this? Since the moment he’d raced into the pitch-dark confines of his barn, his hair and clothing plastered against his skin from the torrential rain, his heart slamming wildly, Steve had known, from the fear and dread twisting his gut, that he was about to face a living nightmare. The keening scream of a horse in unbearable agony pierced the night, louder even than the thunder rolling all around. He’d been right. His life had become an unending torment of tragedy, betrayal, loss. Maybe it was time to finish it, finish it for good. He’d just tidy up a few loose ends first. Shifting his lean frame to the left, he shoved his right hand into his sportcoat pocket, rummaging, finding, then drawing out the creased letter from its depths. There, on the head of the stationery, in boldly embossed letters, read a string of WASPy-sounding names, the founding partners of one of New York’s most prominent law firms. Representing Tyler Stannard, the lawyers were writing to request Mr. Steve Sheppard’s presence at their midtown office at two-thirty P.M. to discuss a business agreement concerning his thirty-eight-acre parcel of land, known as Southwind.
Steve’s first reaction had been to rip the letter into confetti, except that his lawyer, Jeff Wallace, received a copy, too, and had telephoned him immediately, urging him to listen to their proposal. If he was extremely lucky, Steve might avoid having to file for bankruptcy. So Steve was here, in this dimly lit bar in Manhattan, because some small part of him still cared enough to want to avoid that final, devastating humiliation. But it was a real small part of himself, Steve acknowledged with a glance at his watch. Twenty-seven past two, and he was about eighteen blocks south of the address on the letterhead. He picked up the glass of bourbon and took a slow sip. Yeah, there was still time for another drink. The press of the ceiling-to-floor picture window felt cool against her bowed forehead. From the thirtyseventh floor, the people on the street below looked like overfed ants, hurriedly passing one another in muted shades of brown, gray, and black, an occasional red. She wondered whether he was down there somewhere. Perhaps he wouldn’t even bother to show.
For the hundredth time she asked herself if this was the best way to approach him. But time was of the essence. Above all, Ty had wanted a meeting arranged as quickly as possible, and the contract ready and waiting Steve Sheppard’s signature. Otherwise she’d have no chance against her father’s company. Ty’s personal lawyer, Douglas Crane, had assured her his firm could provide both. After speaking to Ty on the phone the other night, he’d suggested she come to his office the following morning to discuss the idea further.
“My dear Ty.” Douglas Crane had risen from behind his desk to greet her as Crane’s secretary ushered her into the spacious corner office. “Can Carol get you anything? An espresso, tea, mineral water perhaps?”
“No thank you, Ms. Grenelli.” Ty smiled briefly at the secretary.
“Please hold my calls, Carol.”
“Yes, Mr. Crane.” The door shut quietly behind her.
“Come and sit down.” Douglas Crane gestured to a pair of ornately carved, claw-footed chairs facing his desk, waiting until Ty was seated in one before claiming the second. “You’re looking as lovely as ever, Ty,” Crane observed with avuncular benevolence.
Ty smiled automatically in acknowledgment. His comment, though more elaborate, was as meaningless as the automatic “Have a nice day” one heard at least thirty times a week. Luckily, the routine pleasantries Ty exchanged with her lawyer would last only about three minutes before Douglas Crane zeroed in on the issue at hand.
“Thank you, Douglas. You’re looking well yourself.” Nothing less than the truth. For though his hairline had begun an inexorable retreat back along the top of his freckled head, and the bags beneath his shrewd hazel eyes were a bit more pronounced than they’d been the last time Ty had seen him, Douglas Crane had changed remarkably little over the years. In his late fifties, Crane prided himself on the fact that he was as fit as many of his younger associates. Very much like her father in that respect, Ty reflected, immensely grateful not to have to pursue that thought further, as she heard Douglas Crane clear his throat importantly.
“Since our conversation last night, Ty, I’ve given the matter you spoke of some thought. Let me be blunt.” He continued as if his request had been granted. “You mentioned the possibility of retaining a different law firm to handle this arrangement between you and Mr. Sheppard.”
“Yes,” Ty replied evenly. “That is something I’m considering.”
“Well, of course that is your option, Ty.” Douglas Crane nodded easily, the bracketing lines around his smile wavering only slightly. “But, being the lawyer who has provided counsel to you for several years now, I must tell you I think it would be a mistake. I have complete confidence that Crane, Adderson and White is more than able to provide everything you need. For instance, Ty, you spoke of the need to proceed in a timely manner?”
“Yes, I’d like to approach Steve Sheppard as soon as possible.”
“That being the case, I can arrange to have a preliminary contract drawn up for you by the day after tomorrow. If it meets with your approval, our office will contact Mr. Sheppard and his legal counsel and schedule a meeting between you for the beginning of next week.”
“Next week?” That would be quick indeed. Ty imagined the small army of associates that would be involved to pull together a deal this size so quickly.
“Next week,” Douglas Crane affirmed. “Were you to approach another firm, however, it very well might take that long just for the paperwork and documents to be gathered together. As Crane, Adderson and White has handled your financial affairs, many of those preliminary—and time-consuming—obstacles will be avoided.” He shifted back in his chair with a carefully pleased expression on his face, as though imagining the ghostly presence of partners past and present cheering him on. Douglas Crane hadn’t followed in the footsteps of his grandfather, the founding partner of Crane, Adderson and White, for nothing.
Still, Ty had hesitated. “Please don’t think I’m unappreciative of the work Crane, Adderson and White has done on my behalf, Douglas. But in addition to the issue of timeliness, I need to count on your firm’s complete discretion. You and my father have many dealings. This meeting, the contract . . .”
“. . . Are matters of the utmost delicacy and will be kept strictly confidential,” Douglas Crane interrupted smoothly, reaching out to pat Ty’s slim hand resting on the arm of her chair. “I understand completely. I’ll see to it that none of the partners who do work for your father have any involvement in this matter. As for me, Ty, don’t you think you can trust me?”
“Yes, of course.” She smiled. What else was there to say?
“Good. Excellent. Now, why don’t we go over the specifics of what you need? I’ll just buzz Carol to bring up the associate who’ll be working under me.”
And that had been that. Up to this moment, Crane, Adderson and White had performed its services with its signature brand of excellence. Its attorneys had gotten a contract whipped into shape, then sent a letter off to both Steve Sheppard and his lawyer. And now here they all were—all except one key figure. Apparently, Crane, Adderson and White’s legal magic only dazzled some. Still standing at her post by the bank of windows, Ty could hear the impatient murmur of the lawyers, hers and his, mixed in with the slapping sound of papers being shuffled, reshuffled, and replaced once more upon the long black-and-chrome table that dominated the law firm’s austere conference room. Presiding in the middle of the table was Douglas Crane, flanked by a young partner and an associate. On
the opposite side of the table from Crane, a few seats down, were two somber men she didn’t know wearing dark blue suits. These, she’d learned, were the bank’s lawyers. Directly facing Crane and all alone was a man in dark beige. She’d noticed him looking increasingly uncomfortable as the minutes ticked by. His identity was only too obvious: Steve Sheppard’s lawyer. She presumed he had an office in Southampton, perhaps Riverhead, that he was accustomed to closing simple vacation house sales and pushing building permits through the zoning board. It was probably the first time he had seen the inside of a law firm like this one. Ty felt a pang of sympathy for him.
They’d been waiting for nearly half an hour now. There was a rustle of movement behind her, and from the corner of her eye, she saw Douglas Crane approach. He coughed discreetly and pointed to his watch.
“It’s all right, Douglas. Since Mr. Sheppard hasn’t called to inform us he isn’t coming, we’ll simply continue to wait.” The tightening of his lips was the only sign of Crane’s displeasure before he obediently withdrew to his seat.
The only other person waiting as silently as she was Sam Brody, here at his own request, sitting slightly apart from the lawyers, no doubt watching her as she stood with her back to them all. A soft but penetrating knock was followed by the low, cultured voice of Douglas Crane’s private secretary. “Excuse me, Mr. Crane, Mr. Sheppard has arrived.”
“Thank you, Carol. Please show him in.”
The sounds behind her altered abruptly, a note of purpose in the chorus of creaking leather as the men shifted in their seats. Now that their period of enforced idleness was at an end, she imagined the lawyers sitting up straighter, adjusting their ties and their shirt cuffs. She knew when she turned around that the expressions of boredom would have vanished, to be replaced with a ponderous solemnity, the equivalent of a poker face that lawyers practiced to perfection.
